


The Honeymoon Period

by celestialskiff



Series: Little Little [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Cuddling & Snuggling, Diapers, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Mary loves them, Multi, Non-Sexual Age Play, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Self-Indulgent, Sherlock is little, sometimes John is little too, thumb sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Well, you're hardly going to need me around now that you have a real baby on the way. </i> John and Mary do want to keep Sherlock around, even if he's a brat sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a really self-indulgent fic. I felt terrible for Sherlock when he said "Well, you're hardly going to need me around now that you have a real baby on the way" during TSOT, and I wanted to fix it. I also just really wanted to write snuggly happy Johnlockary age play. I wasn't going to post this, but then I thought about how many wonderful Sherlock ageplay fics there are out there and how much I enjoy them, and I wanted to contribute in some small way.

When Sherlock had first looked at John Watson's right thumb, he thought that John might be an acceptable flatmate.

The skin of John's thumb was softer and paler than his other fingers, and the nail was slightly thicker. It looked a lot like Sherlock's own left thumb. Sherlock played the violin, and didn't talk for days, and sucked his thumb—and none of those thing made it easy to find a tolerable flatmate. But sharing one of those traits would make things easier. Blokes teasing Sherlock about his thumb-sucking got tedious very quickly. 

Sherlock thought about that now, lying in bed, facing towards the wall. The simpleness of John, the way he smelt, the soft sound of his thumb in his mouth. It was so easy to sit next to him on the sofa, and suck his own thumb, and feel secure. John didn't sneer like Mycroft. He didn't click his tongue, surprised, like Mrs Hudson. Sherlock hadn't thought enough, two years ago, about how good that quiet harmony felt. 

He hooked his fingers over his nose in the old, familiar gesture, slid his thumb into his mouth, and shut his eyes. His head was still ringing from the wedding. He thought of John and Mary and the baby, and how right it all was. Everything was right. He had himself, and he needed no comfort other than his body and his mind: he'd proved that in the two years he'd been gone. 

He was drifting, almost asleep, when he felt the bed dip beside him. He knew it was John at once. He felt a warm arm wrap around his torso, John's feet scramble under the covers. 

Sherlock slid his thumb half-way out of his mouth. “Don't you... Wedding?” 

“Yes, we did, and we had the honeymoon suite booked in that hotel, big bed, lots of room for you, but you ran off, you idiot, and we had to come and find you.” 

John's voice was gruff, but his grip was warm. Sherlock could feel his breath on the back of his neck. He felt John's fingers stroke along his arm. He tried to think of another question—something about John and Mary wanting to be alone, something vaguely polite—but nothing came. He squirmed backwards slightly, deeper into John's embrace. He heard John sigh and felt him nuzzle his hair. Then he heard John's own thumb go into his mouth, and Sherlock felt John's body relax, boneless. 

“God, it's a nightmare to get out of one of these dresses.” Mary shut the door behind. “Are you two asleep already?” 

“Course not,” John said, words slurred. Sherlock merely hummed. He could feel her watching them, though, and the rustle as she put her clothes on Sherlock's chair. She came and sat on the opposite side of the bed from John, next to Sherlock. 

“Babies,” she said softly. He heard tenderness in her voice. He felt her fingers brush through his hair. “Thank God you have me, eh?” 

Then she was in bed next to him, another arm around him, fingers tangled with John's. He breathed in her scent: the smoggy night, air-freshener from the cab, Clair de Lune. “Don't deserve you,” John mumbled. His thumb was still in his mouth. Sherlock was glad he was still _John_ : fierce and soft and utterly himself. He was the same in all the way that mattered. 

Sherlock curled deep in the tangle of limbs. He slept. 

*

He woke up too hot, with Mary snoring, surprisingly husky, into his hair. He squirmed. His bladder was full, his mouth was dry, and he and John were sweating against each other. Thin light filtered in though the half-open curtains. It was mid-morning. 

Better not wake Mary. Last time he'd slept between them, she'd been much grumpier than John. He poked at John with his heel, worming backwards. 

“John... John, wake up.” 

John murmured vaguely. John was so boring when he was asleep. 

In a way, it was nice to be here, in between them. He mightn't get this again. Would they still want him, when they thought about it? On the other hand, he was hot and he needed to pee. 

“Up,” he said more firmly, kicking him. 

John opened his eyes blearily. “Go back to sleep.”

“It's time to get up,” Sherlock said. “Come on. Don't wake your wife.” 

John rubbed his face against the pillow. “Stay. Have a cuddle. Don't wake Mary, she hates that.” 

He stroked Sherlock's back. He must be tired: he never said 'cuddle' when he had full control of his faculties, even if that was what he wanted, or what they were doing. 

“I need a wee,” Sherlock said. Childish word, slight hint of petulance. He felt more little than he had in ages, more vulnerable. He hated wanting them so much. 

John sighed, and sat up. “Fuck,” he said. Then, “Me too.” 

He thrust his legs out of bed. Sherlock followed, curling his toes in the cool air. They went to the bathroom together, and shared the loo, pressed hip to hip, Sherlock's head resting on John's shoulder. Sherlock watched their twin streams hitting the water. Part of him was interested in calculating volume, part of him wanted to measure John's cock, part of him liked the warmth, the intimacy. He nuzzled into John's neck. 

“You done?” John said, shaking off. 

“Mm.” 

“Wash your hands then.” John guided him over to the sink. 

In the kitchen, John put on toast. Sherlock found his box of Lego beside the sofa, and got his special blanket from where he'd left it on the armchair. He tipped the box out, enjoying the crash of bricks hitting the floor. He hadn't got these out in ages.

He started sorting the bricks by colour. John came in with toast and glasses of orange juice. Where had he got that from? Maybe Mrs Hudson had put it in the fridge. She sometimes talked about scurvy. 

“You can play after breakfast,” John said, putting the toast down. 

“You're not the grown-up,” Sherlock said. “You play with me.”

“I am when Mary's not awake,” John said. He sat down next to Sherlock, warm thigh resting on Sherlock's leg. He twitched the blanket draped over Sherlock's shoulder. “I'm more grown-up than you.” 

“Debatable,” Sherlock said, rubbing the silky part of his blanket over his lip. “I want to build a model of the Tower of London. I had all the bits before, I still do unless you've taken some.” 

“Toast first. I put Nutella on it.”

Sherlock looked up, calculating. “I don't have any Nutella.” 

“I still have food hidden away here for emergencies. Go on.”

John had cut the toast into soldiers. The Nutella was spread thin and all the way to the edge, just the way he liked it. Sherlock chewed his lip. He should eat it. He should be good, so John and Mary might...

No, no point thinking that. He grabbed a soldier and began sucking the Nutella off. John sighed and took a slice of his own. 

Sherlock put his feet in John's lap and concentrated on building the foundations. John helped. They didn't talk much: there was just the clicking of bricks, and the soft sounds of the old building. The wedding felt distant, but it kept popping into Sherlock's head unexpectedly. When it did, his thumb would find its way into his mouth, and he'd hug the blanket close. 

“My back hurts,” John said. “How come you never get sore, sitting down here?”

Sherlock did, but it was worth it. “I'm more bendy.”

“You are.” John took Sherlock's feet in his hands and began twisting his legs around each other. He tickled Sherlock's knees. Sherlock bit his lip so he wouldn't laugh, and swatted at John's hands. 

Suddenly they were fighting, wrestling on top of one another on the floor. It wasn't painful. Even though they both knew how to fight, this was different. This was Sherlock when he was feeling little, and John who looked after him even when he felt little too, and they didn't fight properly. They pawed at each other. 

John grabbed Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock bit his wrist, not hard enough to break the skin. John twisted free and shoved his thigh between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock scratched at John's ribs. John was warm against him, heavy. Their were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before, and he was pinching Sherlock's armpit. It stung. 

Sherlock felt a lot of things at once. He wanted to cry. His skin was singing with energy, he wanted to hurt John, he wanted to cling to him. He grabbed the loose flesh under John's ribs and twisted it. John hissed, and grabbed him, twisting Sherlock's wrists in his hands. Sherlock yelped despite himself—in normal circumstances, this wouldn't hurt, but he was little, and John was strong. John pushed Sherlock onto his back, his weight on Sherlock's pelvis. 

Sherlock squirmed, hot and sore. He felt littler than John, and alone—John left him alone so much now, and John should be nice to him when he was here... 

His eyes were welling up. He blinked rapidly. He would not cry, not now, not like this. A piece of Lego was digging into his spine. He'd think about that, that one pain, not all of this. 

“What are you doing to the baby?” 

John was off him at once, scrambling his feet, smiling sheepishly. Sherlock stayed where he was. The way John was looking at Mary wasn't fair somehow. One of the tears spilled over. 

Mary walked around John, stepped carefully over the Lego, and knelt down next to Sherlock. She stroked his hair out of his eyes. “Did mean old John hurt you?”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Can you sit up for me?” 

Sherlock did, and was suddenly enveloped in her arms. The angle was awkward: his face was pressed into her breasts, but it felt safe somehow, and he didn't move. He snuffled, and she patted his back. She was wearing John's grey t-shirt, and old pyjama bottoms of Sherlock's. She felt soft and familiar. “Thank you for letting me sleep in this morning, sweetheart,” she said. 

“I'm the one who kept him quiet,” John said, grumpily, from the other side of the room. 

“It didn't look like you were doing anything so responsible when I came in,” Mary said. 

“Sherlock started it.” Sherlock could hear the petulance in John's tone, a littleness he hadn't heard in years. It reminded him of when he and John used to fight over toys and hurt each other and there was no one to stop them. 

“You're the biggest, though,” Mary said. 

“That's not fair,” Sherlock said, lifting his head, but keeping himself pressed into Mary's arms. “I'm a lot of work. John doesn't have to be responsible.” 

“You're very loyal.” Mary was still petting his hair. It was nice. John never touched him there. “Why don't we get off this cold floor and have a cuddle in bed and talk about what we're going to do this week, hmm?” 

Sherlock allowed himself to be drawn up with her. He grabbed his blanket from where it had been thrown on the floor during the fight. He stroked it against his cheek. “I suppose you're going on your honeymoon,” he said. 

“Not without you,” John said. 

Sherlock bit his lip. He'd thought maybe John would say that. He'd thought, but he hadn't dared to suspect. He wanted all the wrong things. 

They curled into bed again with Mary in the middle. Sherlock didn't believe in going back to bed, not when there were things to do, but Mary was so warm and safe, and he wanted that, even if it was boring. 

Sherlock sucked his thumb, blanket fisted in his hand, while Mary stroked his hair. He put his hand on her tummy, and said, “What about the baby?”

“What was that? Don't talk with you mouth full, sweetie,” Mary said. 

“He said, 'What about the baby?'” John said. He was resting his head on the same pillow as Mary, lying on his back. 

“The baby's in my tummy, Sherlock. You don't have to worry about it yet.” 

Sherlock pulled his thumb out. “Don't be trite,” he said crossly. “I know that. But you'll have a real one. You won't need me. And I...”

I need you to stop, he thought. I need you to stop all this so I remember how to be little on my own. 

Mary's arms were winding round him. He felt John's hand too, John's warm hands on his back. 

“Is that what you think?” Mary said. 

John said, “We'll have to make some changes.”

Mary was rocking him slightly, her body swaying against his. “But we'll still need you. Me and John. You're not the same as a baby. You're still part of our family. Still our Sherlock.”

“Still my insufferable, smart-arse dick of a best friend,” John said, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder. 

“Don't say 'dick' around your little Sherlock,” Mary said. 

“He says a lot worse,” Sherlock said, but he mumbled it around his thumb so only John understood. 

“We're going on our honeymoon,” Mary said. “Can you come?” 

“Where?” Sherlock asked. 

“He's coming,” John said. “We'll just need to pack all his things, so he doesn't get bored. He doesn't have any cases; he's never like this when he does.”

Mary snorted. “He's never a grown-up. Like you—you talk a good game, but you're not.” 

“I'm more mature than he is,” John said. “But, I just meant, he's better behaved now than when there's a case.” 

Sherlock felt a retort starting on his tongue. But his thumb was so comfortable in his mouth, and his blanket was pressed against his nose, just the way he liked it, and the urge to talk back was diminished. He still wasn't sure if he could trust what Mary had said, but he felt safer, here, than he had in weeks. 

“We should get going then,” Mary said. Her fingers were still wound in Sherlock's hair. He sighed through his nose, cushioning his head more comfortably on her breast. “We don't want to be too late getting in. Get Sherlock's stuff together, will you, John?”

John sat up. “Oh I see. I do all the work while you spoil him.” 

“I need to get dressed,” Mary said, sitting up and gently dislodging Sherlock from her arms.

“So do I,” John said. 

“I take longer.” 

Sherlock stayed where she had put him, curled up against the pillows. He watched John moving around the room, pulling Sherlock's pyjamas out of drawers and trying to find clean pants. They weren't going abroad—that was obvious. But they were going somewhere far enough away that they had to leave before noon.

“Berwick-upon-Tweed,” John said, opening the bottom drawer, the drawer with the most secrets. 

“I'd almost got it.” 

“No you hadn't.” 

Sherlock sighed. He rolled his blanket up and tucked it under his arm. “Berwick-upon-Tweed. That's almost in Scotland. There's nowhere in the world more boring than Scotland. I don't want to come.”

“Yes, you do.” John rifled through the drawer. He took out a bottle, unused, in its box, fleece pyjama bottoms with feet, and—

“I won't need those.” 

“Hours in the car? Yes, you will.” John took the packet of nappies out and put it on the floor. “You've very leaky when you're little.” 

“No, I'm not.” Sherlock squeezed his arms tight against his body. Truthfully, he did want them. The warmth between his thighs, the complete security, the way he could just relax and let other people take over. But he'd always liked John to encourage him, to push him a little, so he could pretend it wasn't all his idea. 

As well as that, he wasn't sure if he wanted Mary to know. It might be too much. He'd worn one around her once before, when he and John had been playing, but that had only been for a short time, and he'd changed it himself. What John was suggesting was different. 

“You're nearly out,” John said, putting the packet on the bed. “We'll have to buy more.” 

Sherlock had been using them by himself, the tight warmth making him feel safe and cradled when he was alone. He didn't say that. “I don't need them.” 

“Don't need what?” Mary came back in, damp from her shower, her lower half fully dressed, but wearing just a bra on top. She glanced at the bed. “Oh, of course you do, sweetheart. You'll be much more comfortable. Will I help you put one on?”

In the end, Sherlock dressed himself, but John supervised. John was looking at the packet thoughtfully. He was flickering, Sherlock could tell, between being a grown-up husband, and Sherlock's little companion. He'd only worn nappies once or twice when he'd lived with Sherlock, but Sherlock could tell he liked them. And didn't want to admit to liking them. 

The nappy had an almost instant effect of making Sherlock feel exposed and safe at the time. He nuzzled his face into his blanket to hide the emotion, and let Mary help him put his socks on. “Has John got everything you need?” she said. 

“Don't need anything,” Sherlock said. “Except maybe a case. It's boring in Berwick.” 

“It'll be lovely. Atmospheric. Nice, hilly walks. No complaints from you,” Mary said. “Either of you.” 

“Where did you want to go?” Sherlock asked John. 

“Scotland.”

“Liar.” Sherlock found his shoes under the bed. 

“Spain,” John said. “But Scotland is nice too.” 

“We'll have a lovely cottage, and I'll look after my boys.” Mary helped Sherlock do the laces. “Help John gather up some of your toys, OK? So you both get what you want.”

*

“I still want to hit John. And I'm afraid he'll get hurt,” Sherlock said, from the back of the car. 

“Of course I'll get hurt, if you hit me,” John said. He was driving. Mary was falling in and out of sleep and occasionally eating Kit-Kats. They were just past Derby. 

“I'm little. I'm allowed to say things, and you can explain to me why I feel them.”

“Isn't explaining what other people don't know your raison d'être?” 

Sherlock kicked the back of John's seat. “Not like this.” 

“Stop that.” 

“Make me.”

John snorted. “Don't be a dick, Sherlock.” 

“I'm too little to be called a dick.” 

“You're never too little for that.” John changed lanes rather aggressively, and Sherlock wondered if this was the best moment to talk. But looking at the verges whizzing by made him feel sick, and the chess app on his phone was getting tedious. 

“I went away and you replaced me.” 

John hissed. “You faked your own death. I mourned you. We've been through this.” 

Sherlock slid his thumb into his mouth and sucked it, once, twice. “I was all alone. I didn't even have my blanket. Mostly I couldn't suck my thumb in case someone saw and found a weakness.” 

“I thought you were dead.” 

“I know.” Sherlock squeezed his blanket. “So I didn't have you, either.” 

“And that's why you want to hit me?” 

Sherlock was glad John was looking at the road. He couldn't have this conversation if they were face to face. “No. We used to fight all the time and steal each other's toys and when I really needed you, you were always there.” 

The silence stretched. John murmured, “Fuck, have I missed the turn-off.” Then he said, “You're afraid I won't be there. Now. You want everything to go back to the way it was.” 

“Yes.” 

John indicated, changed lanes again. Driving seemed so complicated, Sherlock was glad no one expected him to do it right now. He ran his blanket over his nose. It smelt like laundry liquid and cigarette smoke and safety. 

“Sherlock, look. I can't promise...” 

“Then don't,” Sherlock said. He kicked the back of the seat again. 

“You left me,” John said. “Not the other way around. I don't have to promise anything. I'm the one who should be afraid.” 

Sherlock sighed. It didn't feel like he'd left John, not really, not the Sherlock who was sitting in this car, cupped in the warmth of a nappy, who couldn't stop himself from wanting to bite John's cheek, to make sure John was still the same. He didn't know how to say that, though. 

“Don't sulk. I think I'm making it pretty clear that I want to keep you around.” 

He was, too. Sherlock squirmed and sighed again. “This is so boring. Why can't we get the plane somewhere instead?” 

“We could play a game,” Mary said. Sherlock wondered how long she'd been awake. That was the kind of thing he would know, if he was his other self. He was slipping. 

Sherlock huffed. “What kind of game?” 

Mary let Sherlock devise a complicated game based around devising the sex lives of car owners based on their driving habits. “It's just another way for him to show off,” John said, but Mary let him get away with it. 

Half an hour later, his bladder was nagging him more forcefully. He shifted his hips. He hadn't wet himself sitting down in a car in years, and the thought was a bit overwhelming. But there was no going back now: the idea of asking to stop and trying to get the nappy off at a services was deeply unpleasant, and he mostly just wanted to wet. He stared out the window, willing his muscles to relax. He felt tight and anxious and full and nothing happened. He leant back into the seat and sighed. 

Mary had been making John laugh with her entirely false deductions about the sex life of the driver of the little Citroen up ahead, but now she turned and asked him if he was OK. 

Sherlock nodded and drew his knees up to his chest. The change in pressure helped. He felt the flow start, the wetness pooling for a few seconds before it was sucked into the padding. He relaxed, thumb sliding into his mouth. He was sitting in the back of a car in a wet nappy, sucking his thumb on a motorway where anyone could see. He felt _so_ little: it was both overwhelming and intoxicating. 

Mary reached round to stroke his leg. “You sure you're OK?”

“Fine now,” Sherlock mumbled around his thumb. 

“We should stop for lunch soon.” John's head jerked back towards Sherlock. “He'll need changed.” 

John could always tell. Sherlock nibbled his thumb. “I'm not that wet.” 

“You'll get a rash.” 

“I don't want to changed in public.” 

“You can't wear the same nappy all the way to Berwick-upon-Tweed,” John said reasonably. 

“I know.”

“Well then.”

“I don't want to get changed either,” Sherlock said grumpily. 

“John will help,” Mary said. “Don't worry, sweetheart.” Sherlock sort of wanted her to put her hand back on his knee. He wanted a cuddle again. He was little and wet and he needed them. He slid down in the car seat, sighing through his nose. 

“We should stop soon, anyway,” Mary said. “Or the baby won't be the only one in wet clothes.” 

John laughed. He turned off just after Nottingham and they meandered down two or three narrow roads before they found space to pull in near a run-down café. 

Bored as he was in the car, Sherlock felt awkward getting out. The nappy was full between his thighs. No one could tell; no one was looking. But he still felt exposed. Mycroft could look at him with a surveillance camera and laugh. 

The café was brightly lit, the fluorescent lights itchy on Sherlock's skin. It smelt of chip grease and bacon. “You could do better,” Sherlock said to Mary. He'd had to leave his blanket in the car, and he wasn't sure what to do with his hands. He flexed them, taking them in and out of his pockets. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted to suck his thumb. He wanted. 

John ordered food for all three of them at the counter, before taking Sherlock's arm and leading him into the bathroom. There was one door for Gents, and there was only one loo inside, so they could lock the door without worrying anyone else would wander in. 

“Give me a hug,” Sherlock said, worming his way into John's arm as soon as the door closed. 

John went stiff for a second, and then held him. He felt John's warm arms on his back. He pressed his face into John's neck and inhaled. Had he been badly behaved on the car journey? He felt worried suddenly. He needed John. 

But John rocked him gently, before disengaging his arms. “I need a piss, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock stayed snuggled up against him as John used the loo. “You should wear a nappy like me.” 

“I'm not little.”

Sherlock nuzzled at John's shoulder. “You are a bit.” 

John was still for a second. “You're enough of a handful for Mary, without me too.” 

“She likes it,” Sherlock said. “She likes what a sub you are. She knows you like to be little, even if it's not as much as me. You know she doesn't mind.” 

John zipped up, turned to wash his hands. Sherlock side-stepped him, snuggling close. “God, why are you so needy,” John breathed into Sherlock's hair. Then he said, “There's a baby on the way. You're not the only one who's worried.” 

Sherlock breathed in sharply. He'd been stupid. “It's OK, John,” he said. “We'll figure it out.” 

“Well, you're not bad at figuring things out. Even though you're an idiot.” John gave Sherlock one more squeeze and stepped back. “You still need changed. Undo your trousers.” 

Sherlock let John take charge. 

*

It was evening by the time they reached Berwick-upon-Tweed, but the sky was still bright and clear. Mary had opened the windows once they got over the motorway, and a sweet, grassy scent mixed with the exhaust fumes. John was in the back with Sherlock. Sherlock was curled up over the seat with his head in John's lap, the seatbelt digging uncomfortably into his waist. 

Mary had been driving since York, and it had taken John and Sherlock some time to reach this point of harmony. Sherlock had been grumpy, slightly nauseous from lunch, and they'd poked each other and fought until Mary had yelled at them to stop. Now Sherlock had reached a stage of listless tiredness, and he was content to snuggle up to John. 

“Not far now,” Mary said, looking back at them. 

John was dozing, but Sherlock said, “We should keep going. There's more to do in Edinburgh.” 

“We're staying near the beach. It's going to be beautiful. We'll be there in time to see the sunset.” 

Sherlock snorted. “Mary,” he said. “You should buy John a teddy-bear. He likes them. I lost his last one, and he's never forgiven me.”

“That is pretty unforgivable,” Mary said. She paused, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “Is there anything else John wants?” 

They were driving slowly now, on narrow, bendy roads. From his position, Sherlock could only see a blue segment of sky. “There will be,” he said. “I'll let you know.”

“It's sweet the way you look after him.” 

“He can't be grown-up all the time,” Sherlock said. He paused. “I don't know how anyone is.” 

“Maybe none of us are,” Mary said. She had one eye on the Sat-Nav. “But especially not you. Stop worrying about things. You're not a grown-up right now, and it's not your job.” 

“Children worry too,” Sherlock said, finding a silky corner of his blanket to stroke. 

Mary sighed. “I know, sweetheart. But we're going to the beach tomorrow. That'll be nice, won't it?” 

“Beaches are boring,” Sherlock said. 

Mary laughed. “I'll make it exciting.” She turned a corner, and slowed the car. “This is the right road. The cottage should be just along here. And John said I'd have trouble finding it. Will you wake him up, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sat up groggily. John's mouth was open, his expression soft and defenceless. For a moment, Sherlock didn't want to wake him, didn't want to take away the security of dreams. Then he leant forward, stroking the hair back from John's forehead, as tenderly as he could. “Come on, John,” he said. “Mary's going to make the beach interesting.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5000 words of ridiculous ageplay fluff. Thanks to everyone who has encouraged me to write this. <3 I've only been through Berwick-Upon-Tweed on the train, so descriptions are all fictional.

Sherlock had his own room, next to John and Mary's. They needed their space, they'd said, and he'd heard them having sex a few times, so he understood why. In the past, he might have catalogued the sounds and used them to study John and Mary's sexual behaviour, but now he just pulled the duvet up to his ears and tried to sleep. 

They were staying in a little cottage not far from the shore. In the early mornings, before the traffic started, Sherlock could hear waves breaking on the beach, and occasionally a curlew's wail. He could smell the sea too: rancid seaweed and bitter salt. He knew that smell would stick to his clothes even when he was back in London and tell anyone who paid attention where he'd been. 

The cottage had stone floors and a red door, and Mary kept saying it was charming and rustic. The ceilings were high and old, and there were shadows and cobwebs in the corners. He didn't mind that, in day time, but at night...

A face seemed to be leering from the far left corner, and the wind rattling against the window frames was threatening and ghostly. The bedroom was small, but tonight it was big and dangerous and full of unseen foes. He sat up, knees at his chest, holding tight to his blanket. He was a little wet, and the warmth between his legs made him feel smaller, more vulnerable. 

He judged it was around three or four in the morning. John and Mary were definitely asleep. He could hear Mary's faint, rasping breaths. It wasn't far from their room to his: maybe ten paces. Less if he ran. But ten paces would give a lot of opportunity for something to come slinking out from the dark and grab him. 

_And you can stamp on it if it does,_ Sherlock reminded himself. _You're Sherlock Holmes._

But he didn't feel very threatening at all. He wrapped his arms around his knees, chewing his lip. The fear surged in his stomach. _You're going to do it,_ he told himself, and shoved his feet out from under the covers and onto the cold floor. 

Then he was running, out through the door, into the dark, scary corridor, and into John and Mary's room. His heart hammered in his ears. He leapt onto their bed, knees colliding with someone's leg. 

John yelped, and Mary said, “Ow. Jesus.” 

Sherlock grabbed John's leg and hung on. “I don't want to alarm you, but I think there might be a monster in this house.” 

Mary switched on the bedside lamp. The shadows in the dark room didn't vanish, but instead took on more solid edges. Sherlock bit his lip, pulling his blanket up to his face. 

“Monster?” John said, rubbing his eyes. He looked only half awake, and didn't seem to grasp the severity of the situation at all. “Don't worry, Mary will protect you.” 

“Oh I will, will I?” Mary said, smiling at him. 

Sherlock scrambled up the bed, nudging their limbs out of his way. Mary opened her arms to him and he sank into them, pressing his face against her breast-bone. She petted his hair. “Was it a very bad dream?”

“No, I was awake. And there was a monster.” 

“Poor baby.” She rocked him gently, and Sherlock felt John pressing warmly against his back from the other side. It helped. 

“Will you read me a story?” Sherlock said. 

“Bit late for that, isn't it?” Mary said. She patted his bottom. “Are you wet, sweetheart?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don't need a change.” He didn't want the bother of taking everything off, and besides, his nappy was only a little wet, and it still felt warm and comfortable. 

“OK.” Mary kissed his forehead, and disentangled him from her arms. “I'm just going to the loo, myself. Will you cuddle with John while I'm gone?” 

Sherlock nodded, and let her slip free of his arms. The bed was cosy, much warmer than his. John was blinking sleepily, nestled on the pillows. Sherlock curled up next to him, putting his arm around John, and tucking John's head under his chin. John was much better than a teddy-bear. 

John murmured sleepily. “Were you really scared of a monster?” 

“Yeah,” Sherlock said. “There are a lot of dark corners in this house.” 

John nodded against Sherlock's chest. He gently tugged at Sherlock's blanket and wrapped some of it around his fist, so he could press it against his cheek while he sucked his thumb. In the past, Sherlock might have felt jealous if he did that, but it was different now, especially since John had looked after his blanket for him while he'd been away. John felt small and soft in Sherlock's arms and Sherlock held him close. “Don't worry,” Sherlock said. “I'll protect you from any monsters.” 

“You're a good boy, Sherlock,” Mary said, overhearing him as she came back. She lay on his other side, and stretched her arm out, so her fingers settled against John's arm, and she was holding both of them in her arms. 

*

When Sherlock woke up, he was alone in the big bed, the duvet tucked tight around him. The sun was up, warm light streaming into the room. He stretched his hand out and searched for his special blanket, but he couldn't find it anywhere on the bed. He sat up and peered over the edge, in case it had fallen over the side. 

The floor was bare. The movement had jostled his bladder, making it ache. He relaxed his muscles and wet his nappy. The warm liquid pooled under his bum, and he felt the nappy grow heavier between his legs. He crouched on the floor to peer under the bed, in case his blanket had ended up there, but it wasn't. 

John must have it. He went to look for him. 

In the corridor, he could hear the TV. Some really boring man talking about something really boring and filling the house with his droning voice. It made Sherlock grit his teeth. In the living room, John was snuggled up next to Mary on the sofa, his head pillowed on her breast, gently rubbing the silky corner of Sherlock's blanket over his lips and cheek. Mary was watching the news. 

Sherlock observed John: he'd been acting littler and littler since they'd got here. The longer they spent away from London, the more John seemed to slip. Sherlock liked that. He'd missed John being little. 

Sherlock sat down next to John on the sofa, his nappy squishing uncomfortably under his bum. The TV remote was next to Mary's hand, and Sherlock snatched it up and switched channel. 

“Sherlock!” Mary snapped. 

“It was boring,” Sherlock said. “Wasn't it, John?”

John didn't agree or disagree. Sherlock switched through the channels until he found _The Octonauts_. He knew John liked that cartoon. John sat up, eyes focusing on the screen. 

“Oh I see,” Mary said. “You're all cuddly until his nibs comes along and provides better entertainment.” 

“I like you too,” John mumbled around his thumb.

“Not enough to talk properly though,” Mary said. “Will you boys stay out of trouble while I have my shower?” 

Sherlock nodded. They settled close together on the warm sofa. It was sunny for once, though clouds raced by the window. “You stole my blanket,” Sherlock said to John. 

“Sharing,” John said, and yawned through his nose. 

“You should ask Mary for you own.”

John slid his thumb out of his mouth, and stared at his hands, blushing. “Don't need one.”

“You do. I'll ask her, if you won't.”

John shook his head. 

“You're being stupid. She likes you. And you need to ask for what you want.” 

“I'm big,” John said, rubbing at his face. He'd let go of the blanket, and was sitting up straighter. 

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John. “No, you're not. Not all the time. I'll talk to her, if you don't want to.” 

John pressed up against Sherlock's side. He wasn't looking at the TV any more, but Sherlock left it on because he knew some background noise soothed John. John rubbed his hands together. He murmured, so soft Sherlock almost missed it, “What if she doesn't want me any more?” 

Sherlock stroked John's arm. “Then it will be just you and me again, and it will be fine.” 

John went stiff. “No. I don't want that. I can't trust you now.” 

Sherlock should have expected that, but it still stung. He looked at the animals on the TV screen without really seeing them at all—they were a random pattern of colours and shapes. 

“Is that what you want? It just being you and me?” John asked. Whatever he'd said about being big, he wasn't acting like it. He'd grabbed the blanket and was pressing it against his cheek. 

Sherlock didn't know. He wanted John, he wanted John to never have been hurt. He liked it when Mary held him, sometimes it was nice to have someone big around. Sometimes he wanted John all to himself. He was scared about the baby. 

He didn't know how to put all of that in words. He pulled John tight, squeezing him like a teddy-bear, and said, “No. No.” 

He wasn't sure what he was saying no to, but it seemed to satisfy John. They rocked each other, as they had done long ago, when they were little and alone and needed comfort. 

Mary found them clinging close, and came and stood next to them. She brushed back John's hair. “What, I leave for twenty minutes and you two fall apart?” 

Sherlock looked up at her. “John is very little today,” he said. “We have to look after him.”

“Do we?” Mary smiled. “OK. I've got a bath running for you, sweetheart. Are you wet?”

Sherlock was, very, but he said, “John has to come too. He likes baths with me.” 

They hadn't had a bath together since before Sherlock had gone, but splashing Sherlock had always cheered John up in the past. 

“Together?” Mary said. “Will you both fit?” 

John peeked up for the first time. “It's a squeeze, but yes.” He rubbed his face. “I feel a bit...”

“He's feeling vulnerable,” Sherlock said. 

“Let John speak for himself,” said Mary.

“No, Sherlock's right. I am. Do you mind, love?” 

“I told you to ask for what you need, didn't I, baby?” Mary knelt down and kissed John's forehead. “Go and check the bath, Sherlock.”

He wouldn't normally have obeyed, but for once he did as he was told. 

*

When they were getting dressed, Sherlock said, “John should wear a nappy. He likes it.” 

John swallowed and stared at the ground. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

Mary looked at Sherlock. “He does like it, doesn't he?” 

Sherlock nodded. “He used to wear them sometimes. But he was always so embarrassed.” 

“Nothing embarrassing about wanting some comfort,” Mary said, finding John's socks for him. “Shall I help you put one on?” 

John shook his head fervently. Then he put his thumb in his mouth and mumbled, “Sherlock can help.” 

“Yep,” Sherlock said. “I can. I'm good at doing my own, I can do yours too.” 

Mary and John had been helping Sherlock with his nappies from time to time, but Sherlock was happy to change them by himself. He liked to be reminded though, because he could easily get distracted and allow them to remain wet for much too long. 

John was sucking his thumb vehemently and looking like he wished the earth would swallow him up. Sherlock, at the moment, was just wearing a shirt and a clean nappy, and didn't think he'd ever felt quite that ashamed. He knew it was scary though, to want so much, and scary to think you might frighten other people away. He took John's hand and sat him down on the bed. He got another nappy out of the packet and laid it out. John's fingers were trembling. 

Sherlock grabbed his blanket from the pillow and gave it to John. John held it tight while Sherlock helped him into the nappy, changing position when Sherlock asked. When it was on, John snatched up a pair of corduroy trousers and pulled them up, trying to hide as quickly as possible. 

“It's OK,” Sherlock said, cuddling up to John. “It's not scary.” He picked up a corner of the blanket and stroked it over John's cheek. “Are you very little today? Am I the big one?” 

John shook his head. He slipped his thumb out of his mouth and said, “Definitely not. I am always bigger than you, no matter how many nappies I wear.” 

“What if you wore three nappies at once? Or five?” Sherlock asked. “I think I'd be bigger then.” 

Mary laughed. “Can I take a picture of you two? Sometimes you're so cute. I never thought I'd be so into this.” 

“No way,” John said, and buried his face in Sherlock's chest, but Sherlock said, “OK. But after we need to go to the toyshop and buy presents for John.”

“Are you bribing me, Mr Holmes?” Mary said. 

“I'm just telling you what we need to do,” Sherlock said. John's head was still pressed into his chest. Either John had decided he had to hide in case Mary plastered his picture all over the Internet, or he was just more comfortable there. Sherlock patted him. “John keeps stealing my blanket. And he doesn't have a teddy-bear, and he wants one.” 

“He does need one,” Mary agreed. “What about you, Sherlock? Do you want one?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I have John.” 

“He needs one,” John said, muffled in Sherlock's arms. 

Sherlock agreed to go on a walk along the beach and cliff edge, followed by lunch in the village, and then the toy shop. He often whined before going on walks, though he had to admit to a pleasant tiredness in his limbs afterwards. He knew Mary was planning on using the toy shop as an incentive for good behaviour, though he didn't think she'd deny John the opportunity to visit, and John was pretty much always good. 

Well. Unless Sherlock managed to convince him otherwise. 

John didn't seem in the mood for games today though. He was walking a little awkwardly, unused to the bulk of the nappy between his legs. When they first left the house, he'd kept glancing around anxiously, as though there might be people nearby waiting to mock him, but he'd calmed down once they were out on the cliffs, though he was clasping Mary's hand firmly in his own. Sherlock thought he probably missed his blanket. 

It was a little warm for his coat, but Sherlock kept it wrapped around himself anyway. It was heavy and secure, like another blanket. He walked a little behind Mary and John, kicking at the long grass. He'd done a study of different grass seed-head populations in England, but he'd deleted most of the data as irrelevant. 

Over the bluff, John and Mary exchanged a brief conversation with another couple who were holidaying nearby. No one would know that John and Mary were anything but a normal, heterosexual couple, for all that John was clinging to Mary as though he would float away if he let go. Sherlock wondered if they would be seduced by that image of themselves, normal John and Mary with their normal vanilla friends, and would decide they didn't need him in their lives any more. 

Mary tried to introduce Sherlock to the couple, but Sherlock just looked away, staring over the wind-swept dunes. 

“He's our very rude, mad friend,” Mary said. 

“Don't know why we bring him anywhere,” John said, and laughed and coughed awkwardly. Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth. 

“You could be nicer to people,” Mary said, when the couple had left, and they were a little further up the track. 

“Boring,” Sherlock said. “I'm hungry.”

“That's because you wouldn't eat breakfast when I told you to,” Mary said. “I even made you toast.”

John pressed up against her side, quiet and well-behaved. Annoyance burned suddenly though Sherlock. “I wasn't hungry then,” Sherlock said. “Maybe I'll walk back to the village by myself.”

“No, you won't,” Mary said. She walked back to where he was standing, and reached up to pat his cheek. “You are so badly-behaved.” She opened her handbag and took out a lemon cake, one of the individually wrapped ones from Kipling. “Will that keep you quiet?” 

“Do you always carry cake?” Sherlock asked. 

“Only when I'm minding petulant children,” Mary said, but she took his hand in hers and for a little way they walked as a trio, John and Sherlock on either side of her. 

*

At the café, Sherlock played around with his meal, pulling bits of lettuce out of his chicken sandwich and spreading ketchup on chips to make them look like fingers covered in blood. John was sitting next to him, Mary across from John. John was quieter than usual, but was eating lentil soup like a grown-up, not even dipping his bread into it. 

“This is nice, isn't it?” Mary said. 

Sherlock whined through his nose. “It's boring. Grown-ups always want to go to stupid cafés because they think it makes them normal.” 

“Actually, I just like getting meals,” Mary said, crunching through her Caesar salad. 

“Is the baby making you hungry?” The word 'baby' tasted sour in Sherlock's mouth. 

“Not really.” Mary ignored his tone. “Not yet, anyway. And I don't feel sick much, just some foods I usually like really turn my stomach.”

“It's very early. You could still miscarry,” Sherlock said. 

John kicked him. “Shut up.”

“I'm just being practical.” Sherlock nibbled a strip of chicken. He'd got mayonnaise on his sleeve. 

“No, you're being horrible.” John was looking at his soup, face small and worried. Sherlock sighed. A more grown-up John would have said he was 'being a dickhead', and wouldn't look scared to have an argument. 

“John,” Sherlock said. “I'll stop.” 

Mary swallowed a mouthful of salad. “Good boy,” she said. 

Sherlock didn't finish his sandwich. Chicken was too stringy, and mayonnaise oozed between his teeth. “I want one of those cakes,” he said, pointing. There was a selection of vivid cupcakes with thick white icing and little biscuits stuck into the top. 

“You've already had cake,” Mary said. 

“Me and John can share,” Sherlock suggested. “I'm big, I can make decisions like that.”

“No you can't,” Mary said. She stood up, patting his arm as she went past. “I'm going to the loo, and then we can go to the toy shop.” 

John looked after her wistfully. Sherlock glanced down at John's lap—John's legs were pressed tightly together, and he wriggled a little from side to side. Sherlock couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the signs earlier. Of course John needed to go—Sherlock had already wet his nappy when they'd been out walking, and John was never much good at holding it. 

“You need a wee,” Sherlock whispered. “You can use your nappy.”

John shook his head. “I can't, it feels too weird. It's been ages since I wore one, and I don't know how.”

Sherlock knew it could be difficult to use a nappy, especially in public. He always felt extra little and exposed. He grabbed John's hand under the table. “We'll go to the loo then, and I'll help you.”

John squeezed his hand back. He was flushing, looking at the empty mug of tea in front of him. 

There was only one loo in the small café, so Sherlock and John had to wait until Mary came back. Sherlock told her he was taking John. 

“Together?” she glanced around the café. It was half-full and people would notice them going in.

“John needs me,” Sherlock said, and Mary nodded. 

When Sherlock had locked the door behind them, the first thing John did was to slide his thumb into his mouth, wrapping his free arm around himself. He looked so small. Sherlock wondered how he'd ever managed on his own. The little toilet was tiny, decorated with sea-shells, and they were pressed close. Sherlock hugged John against his chest, and listened to John's snuffling breaths. 

“Do you want me to help you out of the nappy, or do you think you can use it now we're in private?” 

John nuzzled close. “Put the tap on,” he lisped around his thumb. 

Sherlock smiled, and did as he was told. He felt himself wee a little more as he listened to the tinkling water, though he didn't have to go very badly. John stiffened in his arms, his breath hitched, and then he sighed and sagged against Sherlock. Sherlock stroked John's back soothingly. He thought, under the noise of the tap, he could hear the faint hiss of John letting go. 

“I'm all wet,” John mumbled into Sherlock's shirt. “I did a wee.” 

“I know,” Sherlock said. “So did I. That's what nappies are for, sometimes you're too little to use the loo.” 

John laughed. “You're too little a lot.” 

“It feels safe,” Sherlock said softly. 

“It does.” 

John felt warm and comfortable in Sherlock's arms. He was definitely better than a teddy-bear. “We can change when we get home. Do you still want to go to the toy shop?”

John nodded. 

“Come on,” Sherlock said. “We'll do that first.” 

He was still holding John's hand when he led him out of the toilet. He didn't think about it. They needed each other. 

Mary stood up when they came over. “Ready to go?” she said. “I've settled the bill.”

Sherlock said they were. “We're both wet,” he added. “But we can change after the toy shop.” 

Mary laughed. “Something to look forward to.” She took Sherlock's free hand. “Come on, babies, let's buy you something nice.”

It was windier than it had been when they'd entered the café, whistling in their ears and blowing their hair back from their faces. Sherlock's coat flapped around his legs. He'd usually pull it tight around himself, but he didn't want to let go of John and Mary's hands. They took up a lot of space on the pavement, walking side by side, but the streets weren't busy. 

The toy shop Sherlock had spotted was on a street that ran parallel to the café. From outside, it looked small, and half-full of things for the beach: buckets and spades, fishing nets. There were also souvenirs, little ceramic figures and painted shells. But Sherlock had spotted a wall of cuddly toys, too, and even some things for babies, including hand-knitted jumpers and little booties. 

Sherlock let go of Mary's hand and let her go in first, but he kept hold of John. The bell jangled as they entered. The shop was warm after the windy street, and smelt like sand and moth-balls. 

John's hand tightened in Sherlock's, and he looked wide-eyed, anxious. Sherlock tugged him towards the toys. There were a wide range of different animals, both plush and knitted, including a shelf of teddy-bears. John stared at them, but he didn't pick any up. 

Mary looked at the baby clothes, biting her lips. The shop assistant came over to her and asked, “Are you looking for something special?” 

Sherlock watched as Mary blinked, as though coming out of a dream. “Yes,” Mary said. “A blanket. A baby blanket. I have a... little friend who needs one for security reasons.” 

The shop assistant smiled. “I know all about that. My own son dragged around a blanket until he was six or seven. Don't let him hear me say that though, he thinks he's all grown-up now.”

Mary nodded. “They're never really grown-up, are they?”

“No.” The assistant searched through the baby-clothes, and found a white knitted blanket edged in pink lace, and a green fleece blanket with dinosaurs on it, edged in deep green satin. Mary picked up the green one. 

“What about this, John?” 

John nodded, fingers digging into Sherlock's palm, flushing. “Looks good,” he said. 

“We'll take that, then,” Mary said, passing it to the shop assistant. “And maybe something else.” She stood next to them at the toy shelf. “What do you think, boys?” 

John was gripping Sherlock's hand so tightly it hurt, but Sherlock didn't say anything. Slowly, John raised his eyes to the shelf of bears, his gaze settling on a black bear with a red ribbon around its neck. 

“That one?” Mary said, taking it down. She tried to pass it to John, but he didn't take it. 

“Don't you want to give it a cuddle first, check if it's right?” Mary asked. She was speaking softly, but Sherlock could sense the shop-owner's eyes on them. 

John shook his head. “He's right.” He coughed. “Sherlock needs something too.” 

“I'm too big for teddies,” Sherlock mumbled, but his eyes kept resting on a knitted monkey with long limbs. 

“No, you're not,” John said, and picked up the monkey, passing it to Mary. 

“We sorted, then?” Mary asked. 

Sherlock passed her his credit-card, but let her make the transaction. He kept close to John as Mary and the shop assistant chatted about their purchases. “You have a lucky little one,” she said. 

“I know,” Mary said, smiling. 

*

Sherlock unpacked the bag as soon as they got in, giving John his things. He sat on the edge of the bed next to John, holding the monkey in one hand. 

John stroked the little green blanket between his fingers, wonderingly, as though he couldn't believe it was his. Mary kissed his forehead. “You happy?” 

John nodded, pressing into the kiss, letting her caress him. 

“He needs a change and a nap,” Sherlock said. He felt tired too, after his disturbed night. 

“No, I don't,” John said. “You do. Mary should put you to bed.”

“I'm putting you both to bed, Bossypants,” Mary said, “Because you're both yawning. And I'll have some time to myself.” 

Sherlock let her help him out his nappy, and into a clean one, and his pyjama bottoms. “I can do it myself,” John said, when Sherlock put his hands on his trousers.

“Let us help, baby,” Mary said. “It's good practice.” 

He hid his face in the blanket and sucked his thumb, but let Sherlock undo his trousers. Sherlock showed Mary the quickest way to change the nappy. 

Sherlock went into the living room to retrieve his own blanket. When he got back, John was curled up at the edge of the bed, with his head in Mary's lap. She was holding the black bear. “What are you going to call him?” 

John looked away, stroking the blanket. He still hadn't touched the bear. 

“John,” Sherlock said. “I promise we won't lose this one.”

“You might,” John said. “I might.” 

“We'll be careful. It was my fault you lost the last one. Most bears never get lost.” 

Mary stroked John's forehead. “I'll do my best to keep you with this bear,” she said. 

John nodded. He took the bear when she offered it to him. He looked at it for a moment, and then pulled it tightly against his chest, the furry face disappearing into the hollow at his throat. It was a perfect fit for his arms: not so big it was awkward, but not so small it would get lost. 

Mary smiled. She was looking at John adoringly, fingers carding through his hair. Sherlock felt separate from them, different. “Bed time now?” he said. 

Mary looked up. “Yes, sweetheart. Bed time.” 

And he felt better when he was settled in bed with John, John's head tucked comfortably under his chin, John warm and dense and contained in his arms. 

“You're the best teddy-bear,” Sherlock said. 

“Not a bear,” John murmured around his thumb. 

Sherlock stroked John's tummy and put his hand on John's furry bear. “What'll you call him?” 

“Bob,” John said. “That's a good name for a bear.” 

*

Sherlock and John were throwing a tennis ball around the living room, and Mary suggested a walk before bed. “I let you nap for too long,” she said. “You're lively now.” 

It was dark out, and still windy, but it wasn't raining. Sherlock peeked nervously out into the night. John had barely let Bob go since he got him, but he placed him very carefully on the sofa, and let Mary help him into his coat. 

Sherlock put his own coat on, and drew his coat tightly around himself. The wind whispered in the grass and the eaves of the house, and Sherlock wished he had a blanket and maybe John's gun. 

“We'll protect you,” Mary said. “Don't worry.” 

“Yeah. I'm not afraid of the dark.” John nuzzled against Sherlock. 

On the beach, the waves shushed against the shore, rising against the sand like a hoard of dark, strange animals. Clouds scudded over the moon. It was a night from a picture book, a night when witches met around cauldrons and monsters were made in deep basements. 

The sand sunk gently under the feet, and Sherlock thought of other dark walks, where nothing bad or scary had happened. As the clouds parted above them, John stopped walking, and stared up at the night sky. Stars shone, precise and crisp, utterly different from anything that could be seen in London. 

“Beautiful,” John said. 

“They just go on and on.” Mary was smiling, her hair blowing into her eyes. 

“Do you know the name of any stars yet, Sherlock?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “You look after irrelevant information for me, John. You know that.” 

“I know I look after you,” John said. He held Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock felt safe in that grip, even surrounded by the whispering night. He stared skyward.


End file.
